Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (85 page)

The captured RSM looked up, this time, eyes keenly focussed on the object, the longing and desire evident in his eyes, something not wasted on Deniken.

He nudged the tank officer’s arm, pointing at the man.

“So it seems, Comrade Leytenant.”

All three looked at the battered Scotsman, recognising his hurt.

Taking leave of the stunned infantry officer, the two men moved slowly on.

Coming round full circle, Yarishlov saw a rifle poised, its bayonet
held at the throat of a dazed Scottish soldier.

“Stoi!”

The rifle remained steady, the man ignoring the imperative.

“Serzhant, put down your weapon. Now! That is an order!”

Yarishlov got through the fog of hatred this time, the weapon relaxed, and the NCO acknowledged his presence with the briefest of nods.

“Are you alright, Comrade Serzhant?”

The NCO looked at Yarishlov as if he was a being from another planet.

“Do I
fucking look alright, you stupid bastard?”

‘That wasn’t the brightest thing to say to a man who had been through hell, Arkady!’

“Comrade Serzhant Durestov, attention!”

The man
stiffened automatically, and Deniken interposed himself.

“You will apologise to the Polkovnik immediately.”

Durestov’s mind cleared and he realised he was in a very precarious position.

“Comrade Polkovnik, my apologies. I have no excuse.”

Deniken turned to the senior man, seeking his assurance that the matter had been attended to.

Yarishlov stepped forward
, and took the Serzhant by the shoulders.

“Comrade Serzhant, your apology is accepted. Accept mine for asking such a stupid question.”

Durestov looked confused. Yarishlov gripped him harder, and smiled.

“But don’t make a habit of it with
us Polkovniks. We’re unforgiving bastards by nature.”

“Yes
, Comrade Polkovnik.”

Yarishlov stepped back
, and Durestov sprang to attention, saluting both officers.

As they moved on, Deniken spoke softly.

“Thank you for making allowances, Comrade Polkovnik. He is a good man; a wonderful soldier.”

Casting an eye around the mound reinforced his view.

“Anyone who has survived this bloodbath has been through hell, Comrade Yarishlov.”

The tank colonel had stopped abruptly.

A Soviet rifleman stood guard over two enemy soldiers who were busy working on the prone body of a third.

“Ramsey?”

The two Scots looked up, confused that the enemy officer knew the name of their commander.

They turned back quickly, doing their best to save the Major’s life.

When the charges had exploded, Ramsey had been thrown fifty yards back towards the river.

His head had struck a tree as he flew through the air, the bloody flap hanging down the side of his skull
, contaminated with green lichen, evidence of the unforgiving solid object that had caused his wound.

The left
forearm was clearly snapped in two, his hand almost touching the elbow.

Both le
gs were missing below the knees, the tibias and fibulas, stripped of flesh, protruding for a few inches below the awful wounds.

Squatting beside the man he had met
just once before, a lifetime ago, Yarishlov spoke softly to the Corporal who was about to bandage the bloody right stump.

“Will he live?”

McEwan did not look up.

“If ah
can get the man tae the infirmary, then mebbe...Sah”, he added after a moment’s reflection.

His eyes took in the cane balanced in Yarishlov’s hand, again, something not missed by Deniken, stood back from the vignette.

“What is inn-fer-mary?’

“A hospital, man!
Doctors? Nurses?”

Yarishlov understood.

He took in the desperate sight of the battered man, part of his mind recalling their previous meeting, part of his mind wrestling with a problem.

The tank colonel stood, his sense of purpose affecting the group, Deniken suddenly aware that there was to be action taken.

“Comrade Deniken, I have need of your personal transport.”

A silent question passed between the two, but Deniken knew enough of the Colonel to know he would not be about to do what he was about to do
, if it wasn’t the right course of action.

“I can get it no closer than the end of the bridge, Comrade Polkovnik.”

A simple nod sent Deniken on his way.

Yarishlov switched to English.

“Come, soldier. Let us moving Mayor Ramsey to car.”

The three
men lifted Ramsey up, the unconscious man unaware of the journey he was undertaking. On reaching the bridge, the sound of the approaching jeep was welcome indeed.

The engineer officer considered reporting his closeness to completion, but decided against it
. Sparing half an eye to the bloody sight that quickly moved past him.

Deniken moved forward with one of his men, relieving the Colonel of his burden.

Watching the wounded man being carefully loaded into the rear of the jeep, Yarishlov pulled out his notepad and penned a brief note, carefully ripping the end product from the book.

Pausing for a moment, he reopened the notebook and spent slightly longer writing another note.

Deniken attached a piece of white cloth to the shattered windscreen, one of the prisoners following his lead and doing the same the other side.

Yarishlov offered McEwan one of the pieces of paper.

“Show this to any Soviet mens. It is safe passage note.”

“Thank ye, Sah. Thank ye from
ma Major, too.”

Yarishlov nodded as he wrapped something in the second note and it inside Ramsey’s battledress pocket.

“And this is not for my friend eye.”

‘Friend? The commie bas is ma man’s friend, is he?’

“Give this to your top officer.”

“Aye, I’
ll attend to it, Sah.”

McEwan’s eyes strayed again to the cane, its closeness almost taunting him.

He was surprised when it grew larger, not realising that Yarishlov had held it out to him.

“This are Ramsey’s, yes?

“Yes, Sah, that it is.”

“Take it.”

No second invitation was needed.

“Now go
, soldier, and keep my friend live.”

McEwan snapped to attention, the other
Scottish soldier following suit, both men throwing up tremendous salutes as only the British Army could do to total perfection in the very oddest of circumstances.

Swinging into the driver’s seat, McEwan waited for the other man to
be settled next to Ramsey before letting out the clutch, and moving away.

Deniken stood beside Yarishlov in silence, both
men watching the disappearing 4x4. One reciting a silent prayer to a God he didn’t believe in, pleading for the life of a man he barely knew, the other, full of questions over what he had just been party to.

The prayer remained unfinished, the questions unspoken.

“Air attack!”

Experience gave both men wings
, and they dropped into a nearby position, the horrible nature of its contents immaterial, its quality of cover paramount.

A single aircraft slashed in from the south, its cannon churning up the water before lashing the bridge.

The engineer officer disappeared in a burst of red, chewed up by cannon shells.

Both men hugged the bottom of the trench, expecting the stack of munitions to yield to the enemy attack.

Surprisingly, they did not.

AA weapons started rattling out as the aircraft circled for another attack, joined by anything on the ground that a soldier could point skywards.

The Typhoon swept in again, this time lower, leaving a vibrating trail in the water, as its turbulent wake and discarded shell casings disturbed the river’s surface.

Yarishlov, stealing a look over the edge of the trench, could see the pilot clearly, so low and close was the Typhoon.

He watched fascinated as sprays of blood obscured the enemy flyer, the red Perspex hiding what lay within.

The pain was excruciating, as was the feeling of failure.

McKenzie had been hit by two bullets.

The one that caused his blood to squirt over the inside of the cockpit w
as the lesser of the two wounds; head wounds always bled profusely.

The other wound was more serious, a 12.7mm round having entered low through his right side and out the left hand side of his stomach, wrecking the pilot’s bladder
, and much else that was less vital as it journeyed through.

The
Hispano cannons had fallen silent before their time, ammunition expended.

Pulling back on the stick, the young Canadian felt the Typhoon
rebel as more strikes caused damage.

The propeller was now shuddering permanently, and the aircraft needed a permanent right pedal to stop it turning sideways.

Turning to port again, he felt the aircraft stagger under a hammer blow, a single cannon shell slamming into the side of the fuselage, and into the engine compartment.

The result was immediate and impressive.

The Typhoon caught fire, the shell hole emitting a long spectacular orange streak as damaged fuel lines fed an intense fire.

The same fire
swiftly started to eat its way into the cockpit, and McKenzie’s right foot was immediately affected, pushed forward, as it was, on the pedal.

Despite the pain, he kept his boot
in position, his mind made up.

He turned the aircraft and lined up on the rail bridge.

Deniken was shouting at his men, knowing the aircraft was coming in again.

Yarishlov watched incredulously as the dying airplane drove onwards, guns silent, its fiery tail growing with every second.

In the final few seconds, the red smear in the cockpit became visible again, illuminated from inside by the growing fire that was obviously consuming the pilot.

None the less, the Typhoon held steady and plunged directly into the centre of the rail bridge.

The explosion was immediate, and devastating.

The noise was so loud that everything went quiet, those unfortunate to be too close clutched
their ears, permanently damaged by the shock wave and intense sound.

Those who were closer still either clutched their wounds or lay dead.

Durestov, running away from the river, was transformed into a red smear on the earth, as the bulk of the Typhoon’s Sabre engine briefly occupied the same piece of woodland as he did.

With his death, the Battle of Barnstorf
ended, and to draw a fitting line under the battle, Mother Nature brought down her heaviest rain, and most violent thunderstorm.

Barnstorf.

A battle the Allies had most certainly lost.

A battle the
Soviets had apparently won.

Except for the fact that no suitable
bridge remained over the Hunte.

E
xcept for the fact that thousands of their men lay dead upon the field.

A
nd except for what would come next.

The allocation of blame often has more to do with your availability than your culpability.

Chris Coling

Eisenhower gripped the telephone, unable to grasp what McCreery had just said.

“
Incredible. Really incredible. Our troops have done magnificently this week. Pass on a well done to your men, General.”

Ike’s face lost much of
its pleasure as the commander of 21st Army Group relayed the butcher’s bill.

Bedell-Smith, Hood and Rossiter had sat back, already satisfied with the events of the last few days, expecting McCreery’s report to substantiate the original communications, confirming that the
Soviet Baltic Front had been stopped.

Quite clearly, Eisenhower’s body language and grim expression spoke of issues not previously communicated.

“I’m sorry to hear that, General, truly I am.”